Hollowness, ice of wisdom, knowledge, kindness.
Perfect thing, how grand you are.
How I hate you. How you’re nothing.
Unacceptable creature,
With this something I can’t pinpoint,
Something heavy, dead and muted,
All this nothing, something awful,
This is what we are.

If it’s obvious to me,
It will be obvious to all,
So it needs to go much further
Than where it is right now.
I can’t express myself,
But the better version of myself,
Who I require myself to be.
But I can’t figure her out.
There’s always so much pressure
Around her, constricting, containing,
All that should appear.
Mostly, there’s nothing there
But stern self-preoccupation.

Like imagining someone who’s whole existence is there to spite me…
It was
Self-centredness turning other people into caricatures.
One is protagonist of the story,
Others lie in wait,
Put in when it’s time for their roles.